


Reaper's Nurse

by whatsurimagine



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-24 19:10:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14960433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatsurimagine/pseuds/whatsurimagine
Summary: You're a nurse working in a hospital that doesn't take care of your normal run of the mill patients. You're the only nurse who isn't afraid to take care of patient twenty-four, and you don't mind it.





	Reaper's Nurse

**Author's Note:**

> A little fic based off of a request sent to my Tumblr :)

“Can you do me a favor and administer this to patient twenty-four, please?” you ask of your co-worker, handing her a syringe chock-full of powerful meds. It’s a color unlike any kind of medicine you’ve ever seen before, a deep silver. The container marked with explicit red letters warning that it’s for twenty-four, and twenty-four only. You’re only asking her because you have ten other patients on your plate, three of which are very, very demanding, but the medicine is time sensitive and needs to be given within the hour. It is his last dose. 

She turns her nose up at the syringe. “Patient twenty-four? Hell no…” she says.

“Excuse me?” 

“I’m not helping that patient anymore, there’s something wrong with him.” She crosses her arms and shakes her head emphasizing her refusal.   

“Yeah. That’s why he’s here,” you say with a roll of your eyes. 

“He  _growled_  at me. Like an  _animal_.” She shrugs, dismissing the bewildered look on your face, stubborn and unmoving. “Someone else can help him.” 

“I’ll be sure to report this conversation to the medical board if he ever passes from neglect.” Slamming the syringe down on the metal tray you pick it up and head on out to do the simple task yourself. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” she begs, holding up both her hands in a surrender, “I’ll take all three of your button pushers, plus one… if you’ll deal with twenty-four.” 

“Fine,” you say, turning around on your heel and holding your chin high. You’ll spare her the lecture sitting on the tip of your tongue. One on choosing to work in a hospital that specializes in unique, often strange patients with “no names” and highly classified files, for more than the standard legal reasons. Maybe she should find a run of the mill hospital if she’s going to wimp out when one of the patients exhibits slightly frightening behavior… 

… Besides, her offer is actually an immense relief off of your back. The ‘button-pushers’ have caused you far more stress than twenty-four ever has. The fewer patients you have the sooner you can sleep, you’re running on empty right now. “… _And_. You’re going to take patient thirteen– he needs to be shaved.”

She looks down at her wrist, a holographic chart pops up. She taps on four different files and then says, “You got a deal. Enjoy your lighter workload.”

You nearly thanked her, already felt the weight lifted off of your shoulders; it shows in the way you leisurely walk to the patient’s room, but then remember that she’s only taking them so she can safely avoid said patient, and are glad that you didn’t give thanks.  

The door to his room can only be opened via a hand and eye scan, as well as a password, given to the AI. After forking over all three components, the AI announces your presence as the door slides open. 

“Good afternoon, twenty-four.” 

“You again,” the man says as his custom as his form of hello.

“Yes; it is me,  _again_.” 

He watches you carefully as you approach his bedside. “No one else works here?” he asks. 

You sigh as you administer the medication into one of his IVs (he has three total, all in the same arm). “…The rest of the nurses are scared of you.” 

“They should be. You should be too.” 

“Oh, please! Spare me the dramatic statements, alright? I’m too exhausted for that nonsense right now.” 

“As you wish,” he grumbles. He growls as he lays back further into the bed as the medicine enters his system. 

You’ll admit that there is something about the man that makes you uneasy… that rumble must have been something akin to the growl that had thrown off your co-worker. You could speculate, and speculate, and speculate some more about who this man is, and what he does outside of sitting in a hospital bed being treated for…. whatever it is he’s being treated for, and you’d probably never come up with the right guess. 

It’d be best for you not to. Having too much knowledge is dangerous in your line of work. Just do your job, and go home with a nice paycheck. 

Staring at the middle of his chest where his voice rumbles the most you find yourself wondering… perhaps a morbid thought, what the man’s insides look like, what they’re made up of. What makes his voice sound like that? What causes the flits of smoke wisping from his mouth, the corners of his eyes? You’re only given the bare necessities in terms of his medical history, what’s required to ensure his recovery. 

No scans, X-rays, no blood results. You’re not even privileged with the nature of what injury he’s recovering from. From the looks of him, you’d say it has to be something internal. Everything to the naked eye seems to be fine. He’s clearly a battle-worn soldier. Skin is… a little greyer than normal, but the richness of his brown color still shines through. None of his scars look fresh… 

“What hour are you on?” he asks. 

“Um…” You stumble to remember the answer, close your eyes to concentrate. Both because twenty-four must have noticed the faraway stare, so you’re flustered, and because you’re dead tired. “…Hour thirty-six, soon.” 

He chuckles, low, and villainous. “Tired already?” 

You tilt your head to the side studying his face. His supernatural tone of voice is hard to pick apart. You can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or if the air of judgment in his words is real. 

“Yes. I am. They made super soldiers, but they didn’t make super nurses. I am only human,” you sigh and pinch the bridge fo your nose, “…unfortunately.” 

“That’s far from unfortunate.  _Stay_ that way, would you? Don’t become a freak like the rest of us.”

You hmph as your smartwatch chimes multiple times, alerting you to several texts. “I’ll try,” you say as you check it. Finding messages from your cowardly co-worker. 

> _I took the rest of your workload :)_
> 
> _plz dont report me_
> 
> _Hope we’re good_

“Oh… my God,” you whisper to yourself. You quickly text her back:

> _we’re fine_
> 
> _thanks for doing that_
> 
> _please contact me if it becomes too much_
> 
> _ill be getting some sleep_

When you flick the screen away and look back up the man is sporting a similar type of faraway look you must have had but a few moments earlier. Except his is far more concerning than yours was. Now you’re on high alert, heart picking up its pace, hummingbird thumping against your ribcage. It’s situations like this when you desperately wish you knew the patient’s name. 

“Twenty-four? Twenty-four?! Are you alright?” 

You should call his doctor but you don’t. You reach for his hand and lean in to cup his face (uncharacteristically unprofessional for you). As soon as your hand touches his he snatches it up so quickly and so tightly that you yelp. His skin vibrates against both of your hands, goes momentarily translucent, and for a second you thought he was going to disappear right before your eyes. 

He meets your intense gaze with one that is even more so, near sapping. His eyes flit back and forth… searching for something. A shiver runs sharp down your spine, your breath shudders out from your chest. The man’s grip on your hand is boarding on painful, but the room has become so electrically charged that you hardly pay any attention to the discomfort. 

“What’s happening?” you whisper. 

“Don’t freak out,” he says gruffly. He leans forward until his forehead is just shy of pressing against yours. “You always panic. Do  _not_  call that–” the man groans, closes his eyes, and grits his teeth as his skin starts to vibrate again– “Do not sick that  _shrew_  of a woman on me…”

“A- always? Wh- what?” The circumference around your head tightens like a rubber band, throbbing settles on each of your temples. A frustrating fog settles around your brain as you try to figure out what he could be talking about. This has never happened before, you’ve never “freaked out” on the job. 

His free hand flies up with such ferocity it seemed he was going to smack you in the face. But it comes to a gentle stop, and he cups your jaw. His thumb strokes intimately across your cheekbone. “Don’t  _scream_ ,” he demands. 

His grip on your hand is becoming unbearable. “Twenty–” 

“Gabriel, my name is Gab–” 

His words cut off as all of the sudden he bursts into a dark black plume of mist. It surrounds you, pressures your ears, and suppresses your sight. You lose your equilibrium, falling over onto the hospital bed, hyperventilating.  _Maybe_  you’re freaking out, but you manage not to scream. 

The mist moves away from you to the head of the bed. You watch it waft and evanescence with awe, you’ve never seen anything quite like this in your time working here. 

“Gabriel?” 

The smoke forms back into a man, but not as you just knew him. Dressed not in a hospital gown, but in a long black coat, hood up, with his back to you. 

“Gabe?!” 

He sighs, exaggerated, and long; rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck from side to side. “That’s much better.” Gabe carefully turns to face you, slowly revealing himself to now be masked. Not just masked. Infamously masked. The world-renowned, cold-blooded terrorist known to the public as the “Reaper.” 

Reaper seems so much bigger, far more of a menace now that he’s revealed himself to be, well, the _Reaper._  Clad in black, and not humbled by hospital blankets, and a soft blue gown. 

“I’ve always liked the way you say my name,” he croons. 

There’s that word again…  _always_. “I’ve never said your name before… why do you keep saying things like that?” Your heart won’t stop racing, suddenly all of your fatigue is weighing you down like an anvil dropping into the deep ocean. 

“It’s time for you to take a nap.” 

You shake your head. “Can you  _explain_?” 

“You sleep; when you wake up… I’ll explain. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

You’re right on the precipice of having no choice but to rest. If you stood right now you’re almost sure that you’d black out. So instead of fighting it any more, you lay back on the bed, now watching Reaper’s every move as he grabs a chair, pulls it up, and sits down. 

You stare at him with glassy eyes, until they tear over, and roll down your cheeks. He leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees. 

“Close. Your. Eyes.”

Once your heavy lids fall closed there’s no opening them again. Sleep settles in your muscles, weighs down your consciousness. But you still have just one more question. 

“Why do you act like you know me?” Your voice cracks, protesting your question.

“Because I do, you’re always my nurse.”

“ _Always_.” You laugh maniacally. The chair screeches as he scoots closer. A jolt of electricity shoots through your chest as a metal talon glides from the point of your chin to your ear. “…This was my first time treating you, I think… I would remember meeting the infamous Reaper.” 

He laughs, you can feel the smugness radiating off his body. “You  _always_  say that,” he says, traced with longing.

“Oh… fuck you… cryptic bastard…”

Reaper watches you drift off, painful adoration tugging at his heart. Your pursed lips slack with sleep, you snore softly. As soon as he tries to leave this room Moira will wipe your memory of him. Just as she does every nurse who helps take care of the Talon agents. Keeping them aware, but not too aware. To ensure no one runs their mouth, and identities stay hidden. Especially with agents like him, falling for nurses like you, and spilling secrets due to pesky romantic feelings. 

He who is of the resentful opinion that it is what’s best for you, the option that will keep you the safest. He’ll threaten the mad scientist with death if she dares take too much, dares to mess with your genetics the way she did him. He can hear her grating laughter now, her swearing she’d never  _dream_ of incurring his wrath. Even if he knows how it will go, he still threatens. His protective nature doesn’t allow him to do anything else. 

Reaper stands and looms over your sleeping form. In his line of work, there will always be more injuries, more nanobot transplants. The next mission may leave him under your care for weeks, he can’t say that doesn’t sound half bad. He looks forward to meeting you again, and again, and again. 


End file.
